Several Deaths Later t-2 Read online

  "Why's that?"

  "He had something derogatory to say about each of them."

  "But did he say anything at all about his argument with Todd Ames?"

  "Just one thing and it didn't make much sense. He laughed when I asked him about it and he said 'Todd's just sick of payday.'"

  "Payday? He didn't elaborate?"

  "Huh-uh." She had some diet 7-Up. He watched her lips. They were wonderful lips, full and rich as a seventeenth-century Italian countess. "But, you know, Tobin, I don't think any of them like each other."

  "Any of 'Celebrity Circle?'"

  "Right."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "That's why I'm half-bombed."

  "Why?"

  "Drinking with Cassie McDowell. She wasn't as blunt as Ken, of course-when we were drinking this afternoon-but any time I'd mention any of the cast, I'd sense this coldness come over her." She gave him a cute little half-frown. "I'm glad secretaries get along better than celebrities." He could see the alcohol begin to fade from her gaze. She had some more 7-Up. "Anyway, she sure asked me a lot of questions."

  "About what?"

  "If a redheaded woman was following us or anything."

  "A redheaded woman?"

  "Yes."

  "Did she say who the woman was?"

  "No."

  "Was a redheaded woman following you?"

  "Not following us exactly. But I remember coming around the corner of the lounge-I really felt proud of myself, Tobin, being on Ken's arm and all-and there was a middle-aged woman, a nice-looking one with a large beauty mark on her right cheek, standing alone by the deck, smoking a cigarette and just watching us. When we passed her, Ken muttered some kind of name under his breath, and the woman gave him this really… arrogant's the only word I can think of… this real arrogant smile. Like she knew something really bad about Ken and he knew she knew it."

  "But she didn't say anything?"

  "No."

  "Hmmm. Have you seen her around today?"

  "No. But then I haven't been any place really except my cabin and the casino. And the only reason I went there was because Cassie came and got me."

  "Oh, she got you?"

  "Yes."

  "She really wanted some information."

  "Yeah, now that I think about it, I guess she did."

  Tobin stood up. "How about dinner tonight?"

  "You're leaving me?"

  "Does that mean yes?"

  She smiled her midwestern girl smile and he loved it. "Yes, it means yes, but why are you leaving?"

  "I need to see a couple of people."

  "Who?"

  "The captain for one." Then it was his turn to smile. "And a redheaded woman with a beauty mark on her right cheek."

  He walked past the aerobics class, making note of the various expensive aerobic suits and of the bodies inside the suits, and the disco music and the soft, warm ocean breeze made him feel younger and more powerful than he had in a long time.

  The captain was in some sort of meeting and would not see him, and bribing four different stewards turned up not a single red-haired woman. "We have six hundred and five cabins, sir. That's a lot of passengers," one steward explained, stuffing Tobin's ten-dollar bill into his pocket.

  Tobin went back to his own cabin and fast-forwarded through two videos. He doubted he was missing much with Biker Girls on Mars or his least favorite actor, Dustin Hoffman, doing Hedda Gabler and playing, a la his famous Tootsie turn, Hedda herself.

  Finished with these two, Tobin then counted the stack of unseen videos in the corner. Twenty-six more to race through before the cruise ended. Starting inevitably to feel guilty about the short shrift he gave even films such as Halloween High, he fortunately saw among the remaining tapes by Val Lewton, John Ford, William Freidkin, Don Seigel, and Ida Lupino-a very good director as well as actress-a few movies he really wanted to see.

  But for now, tired, he napped.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep before he heard the screaming just outside his cabin door.

  13

  5:18 P.M.

  Jumping from bed, grabbing his pants and getting into them the way he'd been forced once when an angry husband had been pounding up the stairs, Tobin ran to his door and threw it open.

  There, pushed back against the rail, two women struggled over a small brown leather notebook one of them held. Tobin wasn't sure which one owned the thing-all he knew was that the two resembled TV wrestlers, impressive to watch but ineffective.

  Tobin, rubbing sleep from his face, walked over to them. Out on the rim of the vast ocean you could see the round yellow sun begin slowly to sink, and closer by a steamer, gray and industrial, chopped through the calm water.

  Other passengers had responded to the screams as well and had now tumbled out of their cabins, watching the two women as Tobin approached them.

  "Anything wrong?"

  It was a silly question and he knew it instantly but he was too sleepy to care.

  He pushed himself between the two women and their wrestling ceased.

  The dark-haired, slightly pudgy woman he knew, because she was Jere Farris's wife.

  Her opponent-a red-haired woman who would have been beautiful if not for a certain hardness in her Katharine Hepburn gaze-he assumed was the one Cindy McBain had told him about. She had a beauty mark on her right cheek. It was a real beauty mark and a nice one.

  The redhead snapped the notebook to her breast, then jammed it quickly into her purse, which she snapped shut with the finality of a bank vault closing for the night.

  "You bitch," Alicia Farris said. She was a fortyish woman who knew how to dress for her somewhat hefty size, her clothes running to loose and expensive garments that managed to be both sedate and stylish. She was probably fifty pounds overweight but managed to look only twenty. Her face, with good if broad bones, was beautifully made up and her gray eyes were lovely. Among "Celebrity Circle" members, the joke was that Jere was her male clone, and it was true that she did give the impression of managing him rather than being married to him. But Tobin had had drinks with her a few times and found her bright and funny without being cruel or bitchy, something that could not be said about many show-biz wives who stayed home and sharpened knives while hubby went out and dazzled the masses.

  "You mind if I ask what's going on, Alicia?" Tobin said.

  "It's this bitch, Iris Graves!"

  Iris only smiled, as if she were quite used to being called names.

  "Anyway, I'm afraid it isn't your business," Alicia said. Then, more softly, "It really isn't, Tobin." She didn't take her eyes off the redhead.

  Then Alicia, conscious suddenly of the other passengers watching her, pushed past Tobin and moved on down the deck, her black high heels sharp against the decking, leaving Tobin standing next to the woman.

  Her blessings were bountiful, as her tight white T-shirt and stone-washed jeans revealed. And in addition to her somewhat overwhelming body, which managed to combine the spectacular with the graceful, she had very green eyes and cute little ears bearing giant loops of gold, and teeth so white they had to be capped but weren't. Only the imperiousness of her gaze troubled him. Perhaps, in a previous life, she'd been Benito Mussolini.

  She turned to go and Tobin put a hand on her arm.

  She glanced at him as if he'd just mooched a quarter. "I don't like being touched," she said.

  "What's so important about that notebook?"

  "My God, do you really expect me to answer that?" She sounded genuinely shocked.

  "And why are you following Cassie McDowell?"

  She looked at him and shook her head. "I've watched your show so I know you are stupid, Mr. Tobin. I just didn't know how stupid."

  A few of the onlookers laughed at her remark. They also watched admiringly as she walked away.

  One sunburned seventy-year-old in red Bermuda shorts and a green short-sleeved shirt said to Tobin, "Are you always that lucky with women?"

&nb
sp; Tobin grinned at him. "Only when I bathe regularly."

  The man said, "Just watch yourself with that little secretary from Kansas."

  Tobin felt his blood chill. "What?"

  The man now seemed uneasy. "I just meant…"

  "You shouldn't have said anything, Ernie," his wife said. She wore a straw hat and what appeared to be knickers and seemed pleasant enough.

  "No," Tobin said. "Please let him go on. How do you know about the secretary from Kansas?"

  "Well, you know what happened to Ken Norris last night."

  "Right. He was killed."

  The man shrugged. "Well, the stewards are telling us that the captain thinks she killed him. The secretary."

  The sonofabitch, Tobin thought, thinking of the lugubrious captain, a man far more capable of deviousness than Tobin would have given him credit for.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," the man said, sounding increasingly defensive.

  "That's fine. Didn't mean to startle you."

  "Come on, Ernie. Let's go have a mai-tai." The wife smiled at Tobin. "Ernie's always putting his foot in it."

  Tobin went back to his cabin and tried to sleep. Uselessly. Instead he kept thinking about the captain, a man whom he'd begun to dislike in a serious way. Finally forcing himself to forget the captain, he started to doze. Then he began worrying about other things, worrying being a process that was with him from the time he opened his eyes till he closed them at the end of the day. There were the children to worry about and his career and his health and there was always the state of his soul, even though he was not sure if he had one. He wanted to be one of those people who could simply put things out of their minds but knew he never would. Ever.

  Then he started wondering about the redhead, and why she'd been wrestling with Alicia Farris over a notebook.

  Finally, seeing that he'd never get any sleep, he got up, took a shower, dressed for dinner, and went in search of Captain Hackett.

  If he couldn't get lucky with any of the women on board, then perhaps he could solve a mystery.

  14

  6:42 P.M.

  "You seem angry, Mr. Tobin."

  "You're spreading rumors about Cindy McBain."

  "And what rumors would those be, Mr. Tobin?"

  "You know damn well what rumors."

  "I see."

  "And you know damn well why you're spreading them."

  "And why would that be, Mr. Tobin?"

  "Because if everybody aboard the ship thinks she's the killer, they don't have to worry about the real killer running around loose. That's pretty goddamn despicable, if you ask me."

  "The thing is, Mr. Tobin, I don't remember asking you."

  Captain Hackett, still looking as if he were about to walk onto a movie set where he would portray a cruise ship captain, indicated a small shelf of bourbons and Canadian whiskeys behind his large oak desk. With the ceiling fan and the louvered blinds and the large bookcase with the sort of leather-bound editions that were never read, there was a certain studied snottiness about the room, capped by the gigantic globe on an easel in the corner, the sort of globe God probably had. "Bourbon?"

  "Don't try to change the subject, Captain."

  "I hardly think a bourbon would deter you from your appointed rounds, Mr. Tobin. I was simply being polite." For the first time, Tobin felt something positive about Hackett. There was a hint of irony in his tone and Tobin always believed, perhaps wrongly, that irony was a mark of genuine intelligence.

  "Then I'll be polite and accept it."

  "That's very charitable of you."

  The captain poured healthy doses of sipping bourbon into large cut-glass snifters and handed one to Tobin.

  Tobin took a sip, enjoyed it much more than he should have, then said, "You found out something this morning, didn't you?"

  "Found out?"

  "You and a Dr. Devane went to Cindy McBain's cabin. The doctor examined her for something. I got the impression he was disappointed. Which means that your case against Cindy is getting weaker and weaker."

  "I wouldn't assume that, Mr. Tobin."

  "If you really thought you had something against her, you would have had Cindy taken off the boat with the body and arrested."

  The captain took his first sip of whiskey. Purple dusk tinted his white hair in a nimbus of electric blue. His Roman senator features were more imposing than ever. "You've heard of the principle of the greater good, Mr. Tobin."

  "Yes. In Philosophy 101."

  "Well, Mr. Tobin, sometimes I believe it's an unfortunate principle we must follow."

  "In other words, give the passengers peace of mind at Cindy's expense."

  Hackett smiled. He appeared both ironic and weary. "People are very emotional, especially in herds."

  "Herds?"

  "Like it or not, Mr. Tobin, we're animals, and we act like animals, especially in times of crisis." From a carved wooden humidor on the corner of his desk, he took a cigar, offering Tobin one as he did so.

  "I quit a while back."

  "Too bad. Cigars are a real pleasure."

  "Well, smoking cigars isn't like smoking cigarettes, I suppose."

  "Not quite as bad. Certainly not as bad for lung cancer rates. About the same for oral and throat cancer, unfortunately."

  "You sure know how to talk a guy into taking a cigar."

  "Even in our small pleasures, there is some element of risk, Mr. Tobin." He lifted his glass of bourbon. "The rate of esophagus cancer, for instance, increases with every drink of alcohol we have."

  "Remind me to invite you to my next party."

  "And it's the same with the principle of the greater good. There is some risk in it, I realize."

  "That's nice of you, especially since you don't happen to be a frightened twenty-eight-year-old woman from Kansas City."

  "She hardly seems helpless."

  "Meaning what?"

  "I have daughters of my own, Mr. Tobin. I don't like to think they're the sort who'd go to a man's room on the first night they met him."

  "She's not perfect, Captain. That doesn't mean she's a terrible woman."

  "Still."

  Tobin had more bourbon. "Why did you have the doctor examine her this morning? What were you looking for?"

  "Why should you need to know something like that, Mr. Tobin?"

  "Because I'm trying to help Cindy."

  "I seem to recall that you helped solve the murder of your partner."

  "If you're saying I'm not a detective, you're right. But then neither are you." He finished his drink and set it down. "And I'd appreciate knowing why you had the doctor examine her."

  "I'm afraid that's classified."

  "'Classified' information on a cruise ship?"

  Hackett smiled and not unpleasantly. "A holdover from my navy days, I suppose."

  Tobin stood up. "You know she didn't do it and I know she didn't do it, and I'd like you to stop spreading those rumors just to cover your own ass."

  "Your reputation seems to be true."

  "Which reputation? There are several of them."

  "That you're something of a hothead, Mr. Tobin."

  "I just don't want to see her suffer anymore, Captain. Believe it or not, having somebody stabbed to death in your cabin is a very unnerving experience. She'll never forget it. Her whole life will be divided very neatly in two because of it." He was angry and he jabbed at the air with a small sharp finger. He wasn't tough but he was capable of rage and many times that was far more imposing than being tough. "She's a nice kid and she doesn't deserve to be used as a tranquilizer for the rest of the ship. You understand?"

  "I don't like being threatened, Mr. Tobin."

  "Right now, I don't give a damn what you like, Captain." He jabbed out the cigar he'd been smoking. "Right now, I don't give a damn at all.”

  15

  7:34 P.M.

  What he wanted was a burger and fries (hell, a cheeseburger and fries) and not the McDonald's kind, either. He wanted the kind y
ou used to go into neighborhood burger joints for, where the guy made them on a grill right in front of you, and maybe even cut an edge out of the patty and said, "That done enough for you," and then you got a bottle of Heinz ketchup and some big chunky sweet dill slices and some wide silver slices of onion and a few dollops of mustard for taste and, man, when you tasted it, you wanted to cry it was so good. So frigging good.

  Instead, spread before him tonight under lights more appropriate to lighting a Vegas star, was a vast table filled with stuff called Scallop Brochettes with Lime Butter and Costolette di Agnello and Spinach, Fennel, and Pink Grapefruit Salad. And lots of other dishes equally fancy and equally not burger and french fries.

  He ended up conning the waiter into bringing him a tunafish sandwich and some potato chips.

  "You're not taking advantage of it," Cindy McBain said. She wore a baby blue sweater and dark blue skirt. The simple pearl necklace reminded him of high school and her chignon gave her an elegance he hadn't noticed before. She still looked tired but she also managed to look dazzled by the spread of exotic food and the carnival atmosphere provided by the third-rate lounge act presently on the stage.

  "You sure you don't want a bite of my…" Cindy couldn't pronounce what she was eating. "Stuff."

  "No, thanks."

  "A bite wouldn't kill you."

  "This crap, you can't be too sure."

  "What's wrong with this… crap?"

  "Maybe it's just my mood."

  "Well, why don't you take just a teensy bite?"

  She was like a six-year-old. Gentle but persistent. He was damn well going to have a bite. He was damn well going to be festive.

  He pushed his face forward to her, in the wavering candlelight, and put out his tongue.

  "You look like you're going to receive communion." Cindy giggled.

  "Lay it on me, Father."

  Cindy giggled again and started feeding him. He felt like an infant. It wasn't a completely terrible feeling, either. Sometimes being an infant didn't seem to be the worst fate in the world. People fussing over you all the time and playing giggy-goo-goo and wiping your butt for you and suffocating you with love and animal crackers. There were a hell of a lot worse gigs in the world than that one.